Trees talking

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I go into the woods as myself. Grateful, uncertain, and whatever else I am that day.  I am adept and used to ignoring questions from people who don’t want to know the answer anyway. But given a chance, the trees whisper strange things. I’m never quite ready. Always a little caught off guard by their boldness.

Why are you afraid to rest? Trees have a documented habit of never going anywhere. It’s hard to pretend they don’t have time to wait while I think their questions over.

Why are you afraid to need something? Why are people so afraid to not be okay? Their communication system is nothing if not sophisticated. When I don’t stop to consider and walk  on ignoring them, their thirtieth cousin fourteen times removed takes up the conversation. An oak tree on the edge of a field asks me why I feel embarrassed at the idea of taking care of myself. I roll my eyes irritated with the stupidity of trees. I do not allow my steps to betray an interest in the question through slight pause or increased pace.

Three hundred yards later, a white pine asks why I think weakness is shameful. And what’s so noble about strength? asks the next tree beside it. A snot nosed little punk of a half dead wanna be excuse for a tree tries to tease out the subtle lines between strength and pretending.

A solemn clearly a woman tree, says something I’ve heard before. Not with emotion, but like a well known fact: true and bound to stay that way. My strength is made perfect in weakness. I hear it like a whisper on the wind but I don’t know what to do with it. It’s not one of the facts I completely understand. Every time the leaves rustle she says it again. If I’d been asked to play with the words a bit before they went to the publisher, I would have suggested some changes. Strength doesn’t mind weakness? Something like that, but it’s a little late now.

I don’t answer the trees that day. I go on a hike for Thanksgiving and take pictures. Afterwards I look at them. Broken trees, dead trees, falling down trees, crooked trees, mixed up together trees. I can’t find one that doesn’t seem beautiful. Or any that I wished hadn’t been there. Not a single one I thought should have looked like something other than what it was that day.

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And there are supposed to be two or three more pictures here but for reasons unknown to me the program refused to allow this last night or this morning. Please thou therefore use thy imagination to flesh out the particulars and I’ll comfort myself with the fact that imagination trumps electronic representations of reality. :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meditation opportunities

This is either a painting called, "The Goldfish bowl," by Walter Frederick Osborne, 1900. Or it is a picture of my guardian angels last week trying to decide what to do with me.

This is either a painting called, “The Goldfish bowl,” by Walter Frederick Osborne (1900), or it is a picture of my guardian angels trying to decide what to do with me.

 

Meetings held at city hall in a board room are new to me. The first week I asked the clerk for directions to the board room. She went into a flutter about me getting buzzed in and how the security system would work since the meeting would end after hours. Yawn. In the midst of her nattering I managed to secure directions to the board room. Another yawn for uptight people.

For meeting number two, I knew my way and could gratefully avoid Ms. Nervous Nellie. What I couldn’t avoid was the time ticking by on my watch. I needed to leave in time to arrive home 20 minutes ahead of the two guests I’d invited for dinner. The meeting dragged unnecessarily, I thought. Finally, I decided that the agenda pertaining to me was covered. I waved a polite goodbye and slipped out later than hoped.

Down the stairs I trotted, past the closed offices of all the clerks, nervous Nellie included, down some more stairs, across more hallway, and into the foyer. I congratulated myself on my successful escape as I pushed at the door separating me from fresh air. The metal in the door made clicking sounds at me, but the door did not move. I tried again because obviously it was the door’s job to open when I pushed it. The chance to push it was in fact the entire reasons I was standing there.

When that didn’t work, I pushed the wheelchair button so electronics could take over and open the door  for me. The door rattled more loudly but moved not. Frustrated, I turned to go back from whence I’d come but the door behind me was locked as well.

So there I was. In a glass foyer with locked doors on all four sides. Panic one was the dinner. Guests would be arriving at a home tornadoed by my family and without anyone in it. After ten minutes, panic two became the possibility that the people from my meeting might know a way out of the building that did not involve passing by my new glass cage.

Anytime the building creaked, I looked and banged something in case an errant clerk was working overtime. Otherwise I kept my eye on the frustratingly deserted sidewalk and shook my head that none of Nervous Nellie’s bosses had listened to her when she said there would be a problem with the security system if the meeting went after hours. I wrote a list of people’s names from the meeting to hold up to the glass. I didn’t know their cell numbers but maybe someone walking by would.

I watched glumly as 3 or 4 people finally came by. Why aren’t you trying to get their attention? I asked myself. Because they don’t look like they own a cell phone, I replied. I’m not sure by what algorithm I, who does not own a cell phone, was crossing off matches for potential rescuer. At last a woman sure to own a phone saw me and approached the door.

Are you closed? she wanted to know.

Yes, I yelled back through the glass. Everything is closed. I’m actually locked in here. Do you have a cell phone?

No, she said.

That’s okay, I yelled back smiling. Someone will come.

I must have been convincing. She nodded and left.

Twenty minutes later, the meeting I’d left in a hurry disbanded. I was found, blood pressure high and late for dinner. I arrived home just before my guests and did what you can do to undo a tornado in 90 seconds. In other words, not much. They were gracious, stayed in the kitchen, and never asked to use the bathroom. I kept my face responding appropriately to questions raised, while mightily distracted by meditations on fish bowls, glass cages, and how especially strange it is to be trapped where you can clearly see everything you want to get to.

 

Barn dances

 

The best representation I could find of the family this week . . .

 

 

 

 

I don’t know how someone thought to put the music in this second piece with the Peter Paul Rubens picture, but I’m glad they did. To me it captures the juxtaposition between the hundreds of dances we do and our profound longing for deeper meaning and reality. We engage in the here and now, and yet we sense something beyond us that is bigger and more beautiful. We reach for one another, twist and turn. Meanwhile in all the jostling, the shape of divine love walks among us whispering an invitation.

 

 

This last offering was a recommendation from my oldest who says it’s the beautiful piece out there.

 

Turning around

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Sometimes you’re going down the road certain. Then suddenly it hits you: you’re going the wrong way. This is not my metaphor. It was part of an apology and an about face I once listened to. Ten years later, I still see that man in my mind explaining how he’d been so sure until he realized he needed to stop and start going the opposite direction. The details of the speech are long gone but that single idea comes back to me when I need it.

Yes, I want to whisper when his words echo in my mind. Yes. It’s true. Sometimes a path is clear as day, until you wake up to see that you’ve been standing on your head. Or that the traffic coming toward you on the one way street ought to be telling you something.

This is me right now. Yesterday, I  was firmly headed one direction only to see it was the wrong one. I wish this was a story of streets, where cars turn around and nobody gets hurt. But it isn’t.

With increasing frustration, I have pushed a certain someone on quite a number of points. A friend tells me I am the queen of hyperbole (although she stopped short of a capital Q and it hung in the air like a question as to whether this was a good thing). So stripping my own words naked of all disguise, my communications to said individual have boiled down to this: You are not trying, you don’t care, you fail to please or impress me, ergo you disappoint me, ergo who you are is not acceptable.

The alarming number of “you” statements storming about left me unmoved as I laid in bed at the end of my rope with the not caring and the not trying. The image of the man in khaki pants, blue oxford open at the neck chose then to visit. “Suddenly, like right between the eyes, it hit me, bam. We’re going the wrong way,” he tells me for the 300th time in ten years.

My situation has nothing to do with the khaki man, but hearing his echo stopped me long enough to see what I didn’t see before. The person driving me to distraction (around the bend and back again with forks in my eyes), that person could not care more if they tried. And as for trying, they’re doing quite a lot of that.

One minute, execution or a scathing descriptive poem are vying in my brain for top spot in the apt responses category. The next minute, I’m rubbing my eyes wondering if they’d been covered with scales. The other person’s previously invisible efforts now seem impossible to miss. I feel quite a bit undone. I am teacher, a mother, and a reader of studies and books.  I don’t want to be the person devoid of mercy for someone trying hard. who cares so deeply. Yet I see in hindsight what a tiny box I’ve put them in, while throwing up my hands that they fail to keep the windows clean.

On the face of things, nothing has changed. Inside, that familiar first responder of my bosom, madness, has been sat down firmly and its mouth taped shut by sadness. This is an opposite of sitting stagnant hopelessness thing. Sadness that demands one steer with a will towards mercy is a friend.

Flight

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I took this picture on a lazy canoe ride with my husband this summer.

 

It feels like we’re all in some form of taking off at the moment.

Girl two has been there done that with being little. She’s big and you can see it, or she’ll scream her head off. (So to speak. It’s just an expression. Mostly.)

Girl one has her eye on the growing up prize, sneaking dress shoes to school instead of sneakers and wrapping herself in fancy scarves whenever possible.

Boy two is turning twelve soon. Unlike his sisters, his dreams of flight do not involve growing up. Rather, they involve making himself more unique than he already is. I was informed recently that he has invented a new hairstyle he calls, “the elf.” He explained the elf to me proudly while preparing it for school. I quote, “the whole entire point of it is to make your ears look like their sticking out as much as possible.”

Boy one is in grade 11 and eager to be as old as possible as soon as possible. Nothing makes him happier than answering the phone and having to explain that he is not his dad. His wings flap madly regardless of wind, lift, or splash, stopping only when he falls unconscious to his pillow each night.

As for me, I’ve been pulled into some local initiatives I care a great deal about in the form of that dreaded beast, the committee. I am a bit over my head at times as to how best to contribute. Whether a committee can effectively take off on this one, or if the conjunction of multiple dragging webbed feet defeats (no pun intended) the possibilities, is a question. The group of ducks that took off en masse prior to taking the picture at the top of this last brave soul flying off on his own was certainly spectacular. Does it follow that if ducks can fly together, people with a bit of trial and error can manage it too?  The gamble of the committee echoes the gamble of our place in the universe. We can’t do it alone, but too many cooks spoil the soup. We aren’t all charged to take the same road, yet needing each other is an unavoidable agony en route to progress. My group flight attempts have temporarily grounded my ability to think creatively beyond the committees. 

So a prayer for my readers inspired by my realities of late:

May your flights be long and brave, your takeoffs and landings smooth. Should you find yourself on a committee, may the patience of Job be yours, and may the dragging of all the webbed feet end in a thoroughly soaked miracle of grace.

And another small prayer for flight by committee

And another small prayer for flight by committee

Epic battles vs. the long game

photo compliments of morguefile.com

photo compliments of morguefile.com

My husband looks forward to Sundays from September to January with great anticipation. Watching NFL games is like reading poetry for him. Unfortunately, his poetry does not fit softly around the edges of my preferred Sundays  (quiet slow spaces and outside time).

In the early years of our marriage, I spent considerable energy perfecting my approach to the epic battle. He for his part developed an outer disposition impervious to assault and especially predisposed to withstanding a battle irregardless of intensity. The matter of Sundays is one for the long game.

I don’t fight about football (this is the goal), I plan parallel things that are infinitely more fun. I’ve taken kids for walks, tennis,  and canoeing, organized cookie making and board games. This past Sunday held promise of two or three options until they all fell through. Disappointment sat with us for a minute or so and then a rather epic response occurred.

When my brother and I were young, we would bike with friends for miles to the top of a very large hill. The very last house where the road ended belonged to a couple from our church with a boundless supply of ice cream cones on hand. We never asked, but they always offered and the thrill never wore off. Some thirty years later, the rides remain bright in the fabric of our legends. So to follow suit . . .

Boy one was away. That left me with a seven year old and an almost 10 and 12 year old. We didn’t have a hill, but we had a goal: 22.6 kilometers and ice cream when we got home (14 miles for the unmetric friendly). My contingency plan for failing young legs was a drive by from the NFL man after an hour and a half of cycling. (Our destination coincided with his father’s superior NFL cable package so there was no worry of him minding the wait for those of us who went the distance.)

The first seven km was our roughest road. The traffic was fast and staying well out of the way involved plowing our bikes into thick gravel 482 times. After that, it was an absolutely perfect fall day. The voices asking how much longer until Dad came by to pick them up went silent. We saw a mailbox shaped like a miniature barn. we saw a house set back from the road we’d never seen before (even though we go by it every day). We passed three bee hives and a lot of dogs, none of whom chased us. We discovered that if you drive your bike over a dead frog, it can make a popping sound and that persons equipped with easy apparatus for road side peeing can stop twice in one bike trip for that purpose, even though they went before they started just like the rest of us.

When my husband came by as planned to pick up the weary, all proudly declined. We biked over brand new black top on a fairly deserted road and followed Boy two’s lead by reaching out with our toe to touch the orange striped construction barrels on the berm as we rode by. (Myself, I prefer the sound of toe tapping construction barrels to popping frogs.) We arrived together, proud as can be of our accomplishment, rested, snacked, then loaded our bikes in the car and went home for ice cream.

After this the moral of story and the point of the long game falls apart. Glowing with pride but rather tired, we sat contented without trying on the couch beside the NFL man (who was cutting up apples), to watch the little men in their helmets running around the painted lines and plastic field.

Tube vision

picture compliments of morguefile.com who saved me from having to take a picture of myself holding a roll of toilet paper to my eye.

picture compliments of morguefile.com 

Girl two approached my kitchen sink with a question.

Is tube vision a real disease?

I asked to have the question repeated.

Girl one and are arguing and I want to know if tube vision is a real disease.

Light dawned on marble head. Do you mean tunnel vision? I asked.

Yeah. Tunnel vision. Anyway, is it a real disease?

I explained that the way she’d heard it was an expression. A minute or so later she was back with an empty toilet paper roll held over her eye.

See, Mom? Tube vision. I have tube vision. She left laughing, the tube still over her eye.

I sat down and wrote her a letter for another day.

 

Dear Girl two,

I don’t want to scare you but the truth is, tube vision  is a real disease. Just like a cold, everybody gets tube vision once in a while. Just like cancer, tube vision can take over your whole life.

The dangerous version of tube vision is pretty much an adult disease. People wait a long time to become grown-ups. They are very happy when their teacher and their parents stop telling them what to do. But then they find out that instead of three people telling them what to do, there are almost a hundred (people who make you pay taxes, your boss, your boss’s boss, your boss’s boss’s boss, people who make you buy snow tires, house insurance, car insurance, people who make you redo the tile around your woodstove … the list is very long). That is annoying, but not as annoying as the fact that the things everyone tells you to do when you are a grown-up are easy things. All the hard things, no one tells you anything. You have to figure them out by yourself. This is the basic job of being a grown up: get up, do what people tell you, guess the answers to really hard questions and go to bed wondering if you should have guessed differently. As you can imagine, the stress of all this can cause tube vision.

Kids, woods, frogs, or a river to watch and listen to, these things (or things like them) can prevent tube vision. They are also effective treatments. Healthy people require quiet places. In order to stay healthy, people also need to be interrupted with the laughter of the unexpected. People with tube vision can recover if they see a bird try to catch a bug through a screen and stop to watch it cock it’s head confused that the fly is right there but somehow not going into its beak.

People have tube vision because looking through a tube makes the world smaller and less scary. Problems feel smaller when you look through a tube. That is the reason that everyone, including you and I, will get tube vision. Sometimes we might not even want to get cured of it.

The reason to get rid of it is that the world is scary but it is also full of laughter and surprises. Tube vision can’t make scary things go away, it can only make them feel like they’re not there. But by making everything so small, tube vision takes away our windows to surprises and laughter.

Kids are good medicine because they are experts at putting the windows back. That’s how they help grown-ups not get sick from tube vision. You have always been good at that. And you guessed it: tube vision is a lot like looking through a toilet paper roll.

Love,

Mom

 

Refugees

photo by nasirkhan, compliments of morguefile.com

photo by nasirkhan, compliments of morguefile.com

My head is full of refugees. What will come of it, I don’t know. They have been sitting on my heart growing heavier. With public sympathies engaged for the moment, I can’t stop thinking that now is the time to do more.

One of the little oddities of me is the terror worry that occurs any time I cross a national border without my children. The shape of my fear is that something will happen and I will be unable to get back. My head fills with elaborate scenes of the end of life as we know it. Me, trying to find north, walking and walking, whispering over and over again to my children (who cannot hear me) not to give up. I am coming. If I am breathing, I will be coming.

I’m not sure why this happens. I read a lot of WWII stories growing up. Maybe a disproportionate part of my psyche is filled with the possibility that life can change radically in a very short space of time. Whatever it is, enough of me knows that the current likelihood of being separated from my home and family is small., So far, I can still get out the door with reminders to myself that I live in an affluent nation at peace.

In contrast to my reality, the UN Refugee Agency reports that there are more displaced persons in the world today than at any time in history. Numbers are expected to rise. In fact, Globally, one in every 122 humans is now either a refugee, internally displaced, or seeking asylum. The numbers beg for response. Refugees are always pouring over borders in far away places. But this is different. The numbers stare off the page in the faces of families and children. What can we do?

Corrie Ten Boom, my life time heroine comes to mind. A clock maker, quietly taking Jewish refugees into her home for hiding until they could be transported to safety. But how can I follow her lead when the refugees aren’t in my yard? What do I even have to offer?

These are my questions and complaints to God. It’s not the pictures circulating in the media (most of which I haven’t seen); it’s the pictures in my head. I list ideas for God of how I might help followed by all the reasons why they won’t work. There is great frustration in having a burden laid on one’s heart about which one feels hopelessly ill-equipped to do very much.

I sat down to write today’s post with the wry comment to God, that it would be hard to write since all I could think about was the refugee crisis, but I obviously couldn’t write about that.

To which either my head or the stubbornly quiet God of my seeking said, Why not?

I started to give the reasons then realized there weren’t any. I don’t have the answers, but neither does anybody else. There is no single simple solution to the refugee crisis, but perhaps because it has no choice, the world is at least awakening. The more people who hear the cries of the displaced, the better. I don’t have the answers, but I have questions nagging at my insides.

Who is our neighbor? What can be done, here, now, in our time? What would we here be pleading and hoping for, if it was our land torn by civil war, and devoid of justice, safety, and access to basic resources? What would we pray, if instead of a future, we could offer our children only conflict, chaos, and despair? How might we become part of the answer to those same prayers rising now from other lips?

Math and me

picture compliments of morguefile.com

picture compliments of morguefile.com

I am teaching grade 4-6 math this year. When I was asked, I agonized and stalled, then worried that I’d made the wrong decision. I didn’t want it to take too much away from my already limited writing time.

Math and I have an odd relationship. As a kid, I was quick out of the gate to “get,” that thing called math. Learning math was a physical rush. Numbers felt comfortable and friendly in my head. Patterns peeked smiling from all kinds of places.

Life happened and I began to see and believe that “real” math people innately understood things I didn’t. There was an “it” they had that I lacked. I still loved patterns and numbers but our friendship was private.

Grade seven math was the first class I was ever given to teach. The head of the math department was a legendary calculus teacher. That year it was my nervous lot to teach his son. Several times the legend found me. Each time I expected to be discovered for my lack of realness. “You’re a born math teacher,” he would say.  I told him of the myriad English courses, but not a single university level math course to my credit. “You’re a born math teacher,” he replied unphased.

That summer I signed up for a university Calculus course hoping to convince myself that he was right about me being a born math teacher. The first class was only housekeeping, but I could feel the thrill of math in the air. I sat down that night eager to read the textbook, but none of it seemed real. Just little exercises for the sake of exercising. Was there even a point? For a pop quiz the next day someone began pouring blue water into a bottle. “Write the function of the blue water going into the bottle,” said the monotone grad student conducting the class.

This moment came with a great deal of clarity. I didn’t care even the tiniest bit what the function of the blue water was. I left and found a course whose functions interested me considerably more (a women’s studies course, if you’re curious).

Meanwhile, anytime I was asked to teach a math class I said yes. The irony was always that, as much as I love teaching English (and I really did love it), I was always a better math teacher. I privately debated the possible existence of a born math teacher with no knowledge of higher math. A 2003 book, “The Myth of Ability” by John Mighton, said it was more than possible, so I made it my bible and never looked back.

Math is about magic. Teaching math is about inspiring magicians. Unexpectedly  back at a chalkboard, I’m not sure how all the balancing will work. I’m 80% through my novel’s umpteenth rewrite. I have the blog and have other writing things on the go. But fifteen minutes into the first math class I knew that sometimes magic trumps time. People in love don’t worry about the time spent together that could have been used for other things. Teaching math is like that for me.

My concession to reality is to keep County Road 21 postings to twice a week. The number of typos and grammatical errors may trend upwards.The times I can’t manage a post may increase. But in the long run I believe that my writing and teaching math will make fine friends.

So here’s to the magic!